Hector wished he could say the funeral had been the worst part.
He wished that the fact that he had been denied the customary prayers and after-death visits that had been common back in Mexico was he cause of his restlessness.
He wished he could say that Imelda's steely-and slightly shaky-resolve and forced solemnity as his casket was lowered into the ground had been the cause of his sorrow.
He wished that he could say seeing Coco throw marigolds onto his coffin through silent sobs while clutching her mother's hand-Ernesto's hands on their shoulders-had been his one source of post-mortem despair.
He wished that he could say that nothing was worse than coming to grips with his new..existence when he saw his own remains lowered into the ground.
Dios, how he wished.
No, the worst part was being forced to watch Imelda-sharp features stained with the remains of tears shed unwillingly-raise herself from the couch where she had taken refuge for the night, as she was not ready to face the aspect of an empty bed just yet. Being forced to watch her try to plan out what she would tell Coco and attempt to get her own emotions under control in order to remain strong for her daughter.
The worst part was being forced to watch Coco throw herself onto her mother, sobbing when Imelda told her that her Papa was never coming home again, that there had been an accident, that her father had been careless and stupid. Forced to watch Imelda blink away tears-although in vain-determined to be strong for her daughter and not
The worst part was the desperation, the strain in his voice as he called out to her, and the tingle in his hands as they phased through his precious mi'ija when he tried to comfort her, to tell her it was alright.
"Coco, mi'ija, I'm here, it's okay, I'm not gone! I'm right here! Your Papa's here, I'm here! Please mi'ija, PLEASE! I need you, I need you to hear me! Please don't cry! I'm right here, I'm here!"
His voice grew hoarse, his cheeks were stained, yet Coco continued to cry, only the sounds of her own sobs and her mother's raspy breathing reaching her ears.
Hector had crumpled, wishing and praying to whatever deity that chose to listen that he could turn back time, that he could just ease his family's pain.
No reply came, and Hector was left alone, despite the two weeping girls beside him.
That was the worst part.
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"Hola Ernesto."
Imelda opened the door, revealing the serious and solemn face of Ernesto. He was wearing a black suit, and he offered a meek and respectful smile to Imelda before entering, a pile of empty boxes in his arms. He placed them on the table, then went to kiss Imelda on the cheeks in greeting. She gave a small smile and accepted, waving him on to take a seat. The table was piled high with items, all of which had belonged to Hector at some point. The man in question-or rather, spirit-was just a mere few feet away, perched on a windowsill and staring at his wife and his amigo. He hadn't seen much of Ernesto since the accident, but he had assumed it was just Ernesto's way of grieving.
"So, ready to get started?"
Imelda nodded and sat, scoffing as Ernesto pulled her chair out for her. Please. Imelda, needing a gentleman to pull out her chair for her?
YOU ARE READING
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Fanfiction(1990 Ghost AU) Hector and Imelda could not be happier. They just bought a new loft in New York City, their daughter Coco is happy and healthy, and they could now be more in love. That is, until Hector is killed one night while out with his amigo...
